Spleen and Ideal
by I'm Nova
Summary: Aziraphale knows how to make use of assumptions to do whatever he wants. Including having a sexy Valentine's day with his favourite snake (in female body, for the occasion). The results remain in history...or art history. (Google Carlos Schwabe 1907 and the title of this story...you won't be disappointed).


_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, of course. A.N. I saw the painting, and I knew I had to write this someday. Valentine's day seemed like the perfect occasion. By the way, my headcanon is that "You go too fast," literally meant "We're inside town, and you're rushing as if we were on the highway. You're going to murder someone!" And yes, pronouns are a mess. Crowley hoards them according to mood. XD And I suddenly realised there are way too many parentheses and dashes, but my Aziraphale is a scatterbrain. _

Spleen and Ideal

If there's anything that Aziraphale has learned by dealing with Heaven and people (and, rarely, God herself) in the last 6000 years, it's that people – beings, whatever their nature – will assume things are going as expected, unless you _really _make an effort to get your point across.

You can actually do pretty much whatever you want, so long as you let others deceive themselves. He doesn't actually lie, oh no! Just...redirecting conversation is enough. By human standards (and Crowley standards, and isn't that secretly delightful) he doesn't look as perfect as angels are supposed to be. Then again, angels aren't what most people expect of them at all. If they read, they'd see.

The problem with hell is not even their behaviour – men have done worse on the regular – no, it's that devils can't shut up. They need to claim credit (even for what they haven't done, occasionally). Question. Annoy...mostly. Fine, yes, he might be thinking of one demon in particular.

Aziraphale has wisened up long ago. He knows how to play the system without making a single wave. And as much as Crowley is the original chatterbox, discussing why and how and if, even he knows when to be quiet and follow someone's lead.

No one expects sworn enemies to consort, on either side. This is how they get to do each other's job, fill out each other's paperwork (you'd think they'd notice the different style!) and sometimes do each other, plain and simple. As if all that hatred between factions made any sense. Why would they be bound to it? Especially when Mum is off – on holiday? Enjoying Earth herself? - and not actually giving orders since a long time ago. Sure, there's Metatron. But are they completely sure that Metatron is talking to Her? Aziraphale has been around long enough to doubt unsubstantiated claims.

Never mind that. So long as they have a nice, secluded spot, where nothing of note should be happening, Aziraphale and his love can indulge in as many dates as they want. This is what matters, on Valentine's day. Or on any other day, really, but they've both been on Earth long enough that they find a weird pleasure in following some human customs.

Picnic on the beach of a small town near Lorient, in Brittany. Both because the local bakery's newly developed gâteau breton is to discorporate for, and because, well. Going from the Eastern Gate to an arrondissement (the French version of districts) literally called The Orient...it's not like going home – Crowley wouldn't be allowed to go back where they first met – but it's as close as they can get. Words are what Aziraphale deals in. Sure, Eden didn't have a nice sea spot – but that's a plus of this corner of the world, not a flaw. The waves crashing against the breakwater rocks will cover their moans, unless they are especially loud.

Yes, of course they're going to end the picnic enjoying each other, too. Where's the perk in not being subject to human limitations if one can't even make love in the sea after a hearty meal?

Aziraphale grins seeing his lover join him. Crowley saw the call-back, and miracled back his luscious locks from back in the day. Oh, but has Aziraphale missed them since they went out of style! To avoid sticking out like a sore thumb, his beloved donned a female body for the day. For all that she's dressed very properly (and that anyone trying to flirt with Crowley on her way to a date would be lucky to escape unscathed), a surge of possessiveness almost overcomes the angel. Such beauty is undeserved by human eyes.

Crowley lounges next to him on the blanket he's brought, and kisses him – ravenously. When they part, Aziraphale giggles. "I almost thought you wanted to swallow me whole, love."

"But then I wouldn't have you to play with anymore, and that'd be boring." There she is, pretending she's not actually eager, or really involved in this relationship. As if that kiss alone didn't have so much love in it that the apocalypse could start and Aziraphale, enveloped by her ardour, would miss the call. (It's not going to be today. He's reasonably sure that Gabriel would have started ranting long before, if it was.)

They eat, feeding each other mussels and chips, mandarin slices and pomegranate seeds that leave the angel's mouth stained red, and of course the salted caramel filled, buttery shortbread that attracted Aziraphale in the first place. Kisses are exchanged between almost every bite or sip (of course they have a couple of fitting bottles, too). They talk too, of course – mostly poking fun at their respective colleagues. They don't say "I missed you" outright, but they don't need to. Their bodies say it all the time, with tenderness, seeking each other, nuzzling when they don't kiss, hands holding when not offering.

Finally, the food is eaten, the conversation languishes (there's only so much they are willing to say...not when they'd rather forget their daily annoyances, here), the wine is back in the bottles (drunk lovemaking is not to either's tastes) – a look, and clothes are being discarded. Aziraphale miracles them away (yes, someone will probably complain if they audit, but still, they'll not suspect the actual reason) while Crowley morphs – just a bit, enough to slither out of them without trouble. The sharp reminder of what his lover actually is dries the angel's mouth with desire. He's loved this gorgeous creature since he's first clapped eyes on...well, actually it was a him back then, but never mind that. Whatever the shape or the name or whatever else Crowley goes for, it won't stop him (mostly an him, Aziraphale has enough of being talked down to in heaven, if anything is likely to stop it down here he'll do it) from aching with desire.

They glide down to the water, which is not nearly as cold as it should be on such a day. Crowley's doing – his snake hates freezing needlessly. Aziraphale would be open to any position, but he smiles seeing his love position herself back to the waves, and hoisting him up – almost as if this was a delicate ballet.

Just like Crowley – it's not the first time they've done this, not by any means, and Aziraphale will forget his glamour every time, wings popping up in shuddering pleasure. His lover's never do. Not because Crowley doesn't receives as much as he gets, but because, "The saltiness is going to be hell on your wings, we weren't born seagulls!" As useless as it is, his lover will still try to shield him from the worst of the sprays. Aziraphale won't say it, but having Crowley preen his wings back to properness afterward is one of the reasons he loves the occasional sea tryst.

The snake raises a smouldering eye to him. "Not going to eat you whole, angel, but if you want..."

Aziraphale can't nod fast enough. Why would he consider anyone else, when he found himself a lover without a gag reflex? (And gorgeous, adorable, surprisingly sweet, and...) Any trail of thought is lost right then – the devil's tongue (or at least Crowley's) is a wondrous, wondrous thing. And then the snake, of course, cheats. Not that Aziraphale minds – but when his legs feel his companion's shift back to their reptilian nature, he trembles. When the coils capture him and slip upward, he's grateful that he's not going to ever more than mock an actual fight with the demon. When the tip slids inside him, unerringly doubling his pleasure, he just barely manages not to scream. His whole body arches like a bow about to snap, hands gripping Crowley's shoulders to avoid accidentally flying off.

When he's back to himself, he worries. His lover should look like the cat who got the cream, instead there's a tension about him, that doesn't speak of desire unspent. "Love?" he murmurs.

Crowley shakes his head, tresses flying in the wind. "It's nothing, angel. Now, where were we, mmm?"

It's not nothing, but if the other wants to let it go, Aziraphale is more than willing to accommodate her. He's going to pleasure her (today) until she passes out...and definitely until she forgets whatever cloud flitted in her mind.

They walk to one of the rocks (perks of not playing entirely by worldly rules) and there she is, splayed and still somehow comfortable, stretching her arms out to him – or perhaps to the sun, which is shining today. He covers her body, sucking kisses under her ear, cupping her perky breasts and teasing hard nipples, and finally plunging inside her. He could be at this a whole century, if nobody would look for him. As it is, she sighs – softer than the wind – and contracts around him, swallowing him deeper. His kisses turn into gentle bites, and she arches against him, and tilts her head, offering more of herself to him. A hand leaves her breast to play with her hair, curling it around a finger, while the other pets her side. If the way her tail swings around is any indication, she doesn't have any objections. Soon it doubles down to trap him again, but without breaching this time. Not immediately at least. No, she guides, she teases, but she doesn't distract him – not for now. He makes love to her, his rhythm the same as the waves, as nature itself. When her tail takes him – again – he knows it means she's about there, looking for an ouroboros of pleasure for them both.

What Crowley wants, Crowley gets – it's a wonder they don't discorporate from the sheer compounded love and delight.

But of course, if there's one thing Aziraphale is all about it's fairness, and he won't leave his beloved one short. Fairness and gluttony (even if he won't describe it that way), for a full confession, and if Crowley is going to pet his wings back into order (and she is), leaving her to dress back up would be utterly unjust. This place isn't exactly the best for what he has in mind, though. So he leads her back to the beach, flushed with glee, and lays her back on their ample tablecloth, all items disappeared, before going to town.

"Yessss" is all Crowley manages to mumble, her tail switching back to legs to give him more room between them. She trembles and arches and groans – and when he cleans the evidence of her second orgasm away, almost oversensitive, she gives up and pops her own luscious, inky wings out, before disappearing them again with a noise of mild annoyance.

"You always get what you want," she huffs.

"And you don't? No sand in your feathers, and I doubt that they were ruined in any way, love."

"Unlike yours. Come here, you."

Aziraphale doesn't make her ask twice.

A moment. One of their stolen hours. That's all it is. Aziraphale won't cherish it less – if anything, much more – for its fleeting nature. By the evening, they're back to their posts. Back to foiling each other's plans – more like, each other's colleagues' plans. And you wonder why Aziraphale has a weakness for Will Shakespeare? Neither is barely fourteen, but he wonders if Will listened to his complaint a bit too closely.

A dozen years later, when Crowley invites him to a Rosicrucian exposition, he doesn't think anything of it. "We can giggle at how wrong they get their 'supernatural' figures," his beloved says, and he nods.

Even when the other adds, "I heard someone took inspiration from that Baudelaire bloke – he wrote something, didn't he?", the angel doesn't find anything odd. He's about to launch on a poetry lesson, when a look reminds him that the lesson could profit from being given in front of the relevant art.

When he sees it, he pales, blushes, and looks around, wondering when they'll get caught. Because they obviously have been – it's there in front of everyone. No wonder Crowley seemed ill at ease that day. A mortal snuck up on them. The result is a pretty faithful representation of that fateful day. Well, he's less chubby, but from what he's seen in this exposition, his actual body wouldn't be accepted as it is. Maybe they had a talk with Gabriel, too.

"Relax, angel. Do you know anyone else who would care to visit upstairs? Because my side won't."

Aziraphale sighs deeply. True. Thank God most angels despise humanity too much to bother with something like this. Then, as ever, his eyes go to the nearest text – the Baudelaire poem supposedly inspiring this. "L'homme et la mer - The man and the sea." He shakes his head, half impressed and half amused. Neither of them lusts for death and carnage – not even Crowley, who's kind of supposed to – but a text about two mirroring entities fighting for eons? That's...a bit too right to be casual.

He looks up at his companion, and there it is – love, but also pride, and mischief. "I had to make him remake it three times before it was acceptable. Appropriate was tragically out of the question."

Their laughter earns a few patrons' dirty looks. Aziraphale wishes them his own joy.


End file.
